


Arrangement

by ohnojustimagine



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25677400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohnojustimagine/pseuds/ohnojustimagine
Summary: Brock gets dommed, basically.
Relationships: Brock Lesnar/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 11





	Arrangement

Heyman is always the one who texts you. Sometimes it'll be every few weeks, sometimes you won't hear from him for months. And while you have no idea what Brock's schedule is like you do have the sneaking suspicion that he at least occasionally flies in specifically for _this_ , for _you_ , but then maybe that's just your ego talking.

It's early evening when you knock at the hotel room door, and it's opened almost immediately. And every time, it sends a sweet little shiver of apprehension through you, the sight of him, just the sheer, looming _size_ of him, the way he seems to fill the entire door frame. Brock doesn't speak, doesn't greet you in any way, only stares, and you like the way he looks at you, with such open, resentful _disdain_. You like this part of it almost as much as the sex, the way he'll never just simply give in to his own wants, fighting the part of himself that needs this from you. 

He's barefoot, in shorts and a black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and he turns away, uncaring, letting you catch the door before it closes, watching him as he sits down on the bed, picking up his phone.

And you don't say anything, but you set your purse on the table, taking out what you need and then calmly removing your clothes. You're perfectly aware that he's paying close attention to your every action, even if he's doing everything he can to pretend he's _not_ but you let that go, ignoring him for now.

And when you're done, you wait. A minute passes, then another, and finally you say, "You know, if you've got more important things to do, I don't need to be here."

He huffs out a pissed-sounding breath, and tosses his phone aside, folding his arms in front of him. They're as huge as the rest of him, forearms pink and raw as slabs of meat, and he glares up at you, small eyes narrowed.

"So you want me to stay?" you ask.

He shrugs. "I don't care what you do."

"You're not interested in what I'm here for?"

"Maybe, maybe not." He gives you a nastily smug little smile. "Convince me I should be interested."

And one day, you think, you're not going to indulge him like this, but you pick up the strap, snug and ready in its harness, the weight of it thick in your hand. You hold it up in front of him, letting it drift dangerously close to his face.

"Do you like it?" you ask. "It's new." 

He bats it away with an irritated swat and says, "What was wrong with the old one?"

"Nothing," you reply. "This one's just a little bigger." You smile at him. "I think you need something bigger."

He's silent, but you can see the way his mouth thins out, a flush creeping up that thick neck, and you know you're getting to him.

"Maybe I should get you to suck it for me?" you continue. "Before I fuck you with it. I don't think we've done that before, have we?" You look at him, watching his expression closely as you speak. "I bet you like sucking dick, don't you? I bet you'd swallow it down all nice for me, choke on it like a good little slut."

His jaw clenches tight, making his face even more square as it visibly reddens, and he stands up, towering over you, the solid mass of his body like a wall in front of you.

"You don't get to talk to me that way," he says, "you dumb fucking _whore_."

You stare up at him, your heart beating faster, but you've played this game before, and you know how to win. "My dick's way bigger than yours, _Brock_ ," you tell him, evenly, "so I get to talk to you any fucking way I want."

"I could kill you right now," he hisses out, "I could snap your stupid whore neck right now, and no one would ever know. You think they wouldn't cover it up? You think anyone would even care that someone like you was gone?" He breathes in, sharp and fast. "I could do it."

"Do it, then," you say, defiant. "If that's what you want."

His hands fist tight at his sides, threatening, like the weapons they are, and you know he _could_ , if that was what he wanted. In less than a moment, and you wouldn't have even the faintest hope of stopping him. "But then," you tell him, "you'll have to get someone else to fuck you, and you know it won't be the same." And you _so_ want to touch him, but you don't, not yet. "No one could do it like I do," you say, softer now. "No one _understands_ you like I do, Brock."

He does this, or at least some version of this, every single time, and at first it scared the shit out of you but you soon realized that it's nothing more than just his way of getting himself to the place he needs to be.

And you know you shouldn't play into it, at least not the extent you do, riling him up just for the rush it gives you, because there's always the chance that you'll push him too far, past his limits, but you're every bit as addicted to this as he is, and you can't stop yourself.

His mouth is open slightly, small flecks of saliva at the corners of his lips and you can hear him breathing."You're not worth it," he says, dismissively.

"Oh no, Brock," you say, "I'm worth so much more than that." He glares at you, but he doesn't say anything more, and you laugh, briefly, quietly. "Take off your clothes," you tell him, and he does, muttering to himself the whole time, but you don't listen, concentrating as you fit the harness over your hips, adjusting it just right.

When you're finished, you look at him, standing naked in front of you, and predictably, he's rock hard, his cock as red and angry-looking as the rest of him. So you make a show of glancing back and forth between you, visibly comparing before you shake your head. "Aw," you say, "mine really _is_ bigger than yours, isn't it?"

"You need to stop talking," he snaps.

"And _you_ need to get on the bed." You smile at him, secure in the knowledge that he's giving in to it, but still, you're not quite there yet.

But he does as you ask, on all fours, facing away from you, his body solid, stiff with tension, and you grab the lube, slicking up your fingers as you climb onto the bed.

The skull on his back seems to stare up at you, its eyes blank and empty, and your gaze traces lower, past the poorly-lettered _KILL EM ALL_ inked above his ass like some ludicrously dramatic tramp stamp.

You kneel beside him, letting the strap brush up against him, a tease and a warning as you rest a hand on his lower back, waiting as the tension in his body dissipates enough that you can hold his ass apart a little. You tease the tip of one finger at his hole, feeling it flinch, tighten and then release, opening up to let your finger slip comfortably inside him.

"There," you murmur, and he grunts quietly in response. You work it in and out, quickly adding another with some more lube, and then a third finger, because it never does take much once he finally starts to let go, eager for it despite all his protestations.

"Does that feel good?" you ask. He doesn't answer, and that means that you need to take it a little further, which is easy enough. "Did you clean yourself up all ready for me like a good boy?" you ask, even though you know he did, because he always does.

You see the muscles in his back flex, his spine stiffening for just a second.

"Yes," he admits, grudgingly.

"See," you say, as condescending as you can, "you _do_ want it, don't you?"

"Fucking bitch," he mutters, under his breath, and you pull your fingers out of him so fast you hear him wince, but you ignore the sound of it.

"What did you say?" you demand.

And he hesitates, which is gratifying, but he still repeats it, louder, every word clear. "I said, _you fucking bitch_."

"Oh, baby," you say, "you're on your hands and knees about to take my cock. So I'm pretty sure _you're_ the bitch. In fact, you're _my_ bitch, aren't you, Brock?"

"I'm no one's bitch, you stupid cunt."

"Is that what I am?" You laugh. "Well, I guess that means you're this cunt's little _bitch_."

"Screw you." He hasn't moved, isn't even looking back over his shoulder at you, remaining in position with his ass all ready for you despite his words, and you suddenly decide you want more from him tonight.

"Say it," you tell him. "Say you're my bitch."

"No fucking way."

"Say it or I won't fuck you."

He shifts, and even from this angle you can practically _see_ him warring with himself, wanting to defy you but so helplessly goddamn _needful_ of what you have to give him. "Fine," you snap, no longer willing to be patient, making as if to get off the bed.

"Wait," he says, hurriedly, a genuine-sounding panic in his voice, and you smile.

"Say it," you repeat.

"I..." he starts, but then stops.

" _Say it,_ Brock."

"I'm..." He sucks in a breath, and you _know_ what this must be costing him, and it's so hot. "I'm your bitch," he says, as if spitting the phrase from his mouth, like it's something disgusting to him.

"Yeah, that's not good enough," you state. "Try again, and this time, Brock, you better fucking _mean it_ , or I swear, we're done here."

"I'm. Your..." Each word is gritted out, but then, as if all once, you hear him take a breath, his head sinking low for just a moment, the shift in his demeanor clear; a tangible, physical change. _"Bitch,"_ he finishes, with a broken, obedient sincerity and god, it's like a fucking _rush_ right through you.

"See, now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" you tell him."You _are_ my bitch, baby, and good bitches like to get fucked, don't they? Need a nice big cock to keep them in line."

"Shut the fuck up," he murmurs, but you can tell he doesn't mean it, not anymore, and so you arrange yourself behind him, slicking up the strap, getting him to spread his knees a little wider so his ass is lower. The height difference between you always makes the logistics of this slightly complicated, but you've learned how to work with it.

"You ready for me?" you say, not waiting for him to answer, holding the strap, guiding it to his entrance, and he tenses up immediately.

"Relax," you murmur, "stop fighting it. Let go and take it all sweet for me, like a good little _bitch_." He exhales a long breath at that last word, and the cock enters him easily, you pushing it in slow. You look down, watching as it's swallowed up, inch by thick inch and when your pelvis is right up against his ass, you stop, holding there, waiting for him to adjust to the full length of it inside him. You rub his lower back, circling your hand over his skin, heated under your touch. "You're so tight, aren't you? So hot for it."

He hisses out something that might be _yes_ , and you start to move back, carefully, pulling out almost all the way before going back in, still steady but faster, and this time, there's no resistance.

He lets out a high-pitched whimper, and you smile to yourself, triumphant. "Oh, listen to those noises you make for me, all whiny and pretty. Like the pussy you are." And you start to thrust, moving your hips, nice and shallow for now, just to get him going. "What would everyone think if they saw you like this?" you ask. "What would they think of you?"

You pull out, further, and this time you _slam_ back into him, settling into a rougher rhythm.

"Sometimes I like to imagine that," you say. "Doing this to you with everyone watching. In the ring, in front of an audience, all of them seeing."

He's moaning now, but you don't let up.

"I want _you_ to think about that," you tell him. "Right now, I want you to think about doing this in the ring, you bent over in front of the whole world with my cock in your ass, just taking it like some..." You pause, recalling what he said to you earlier. "Like some _dumb fucking whore_. What do you think they'd all say? Because they'd know then, Brock, wouldn't they? What a needy, pathetic cock slut you are, how much you love it."

You shift right back, gripping the base of the strap to get the perfect angle as you you push back inside him, hitting him exactly where you know he needs it, and you can see the sheen of sweat on his skin, beading into droplets at the base of his spine.

"You want to touch yourself, baby?" you ask, softly, and you see him nod, huge head moving on that thick neck. "Hand," you order, and he shifts his weight onto one arm, reaching back behind him as you squirt a generous helping of lube into his waiting palm.

"There you go," you tell him. "Say thank you."

"Thank you," he says, without the slightest hesitation, so docile and compliant that it makes something _flare_ inside you, high on the power of it, because you could make him do _anything_ right now, anything at all. But you know what he needs.

"Stroke yourself nice and slow," you say. "And don't come until I tell you."

He gets his hand on his cock, and you can see the muscles in his ass tighten, clenching around the strap as he works himself.

His whole body is flushed red, and you fuck into him, hard, then even harder, and the sound he makes is one of pure, unashamed desperation, and maybe you should keep him on edge for longer, but you're too turned on. "Come for me, Brock," you say. "Right now." And his response is _instant,_ the way he gasps, whining high in his throat, his body jerking as he shoots off into his own hand, come spilling down onto the bed.

He's still panting as you pull out, slowly, forcing yourself to be careful, and you unfasten the harness, tossing the strap aside. You nudge impatiently at him with one knee and he rolls over onto his back, whole body heaving with every breath, and you can't wait.

You crawl up over him, and he wraps his hands around your thighs, dragging you closer. It’s always awkward getting the angle right, because he's just so goddamn _wide_ , shoulders and chest huge and broad but you get your cunt over his face, holding on to the headboard of the bed, steadying yourself as his mouth finds you.

And it doesn't help that he's actually really, _really_ bad at this, but it never matters, because you're so hot for it that it barely takes anything to make you come. He licks you, clumsily, like he doesn't even know where your clit is, but you move your hips, managing to get enough of it, and perhaps, you think, one of these days you'll bother to teach him how to do this properly. You picture it, him kneeling in front of you, his head between your legs, a crop in your hand, ready for punishment when he doesn't follow your instructions fast enough, and the thought is more than enough to send you over the edge.

You grind down onto his face as you orgasm, taking what you need from him, and when you're done, you kneel up, shifting back.

He stares up at you, and maybe he's smiling, maybe he's not; small, pale eyes unreadable. His face is slick with your wetness, and you rub your thumb over his lips, smearing it further, watching his tongue flicker out to lick it up.

But then you breathe in, climbing off him, turning away to sit beside him, bending your legs up in front of you, hands clasped around your knees, aftershocks throbbing faintly inside you, fading away.

Brock hasn't moved, still lying next to you, and he rests one hand on your back, slowly stroking down your spine. There's something vaguely tender in his touch, an affection that should surprise you but somehow doesn't, and you're not sure _why_ , but you don't question it.

Neither of you speak for a good, long time, and you know you need to leave, but you like this, sitting here in silence. It's weird, you muse to yourself, because while you might essentially be strangers you know more about each other than anyone should, and there's something comfortably familiar in that.

"I never asked you," Brock says, after a while, "how do you know Heyman?

And you'd wonder why he's curious, but you don't much care, so you answer honestly, saying, "I used to date one of his friends."

"'Date'," replies Brock, with a weird, cynical-sounding little laugh. There's an edge in his voice as he goes on, asking, "So how much does he pay you?"

You look back over your shoulder at Brock. "He doesn't _pay_ me."

He seems confused, staring at you, mouth slightly open. "So you're not a..."

"No," you tell him, and for a second you're puzzled by the sheer _panic_ on his face, but then you realize. "Don't worry," you assure him. "Paul had me sign an NDA before I even met you."

"Oh," he says. "Okay." He breathes out, as if in relief. "Sorry, I didn't mean to... I just assumed you were..." He doesn't finish, and you turn around to face him, sitting close, your hip pressed warm up against the hard expanse of his thigh.

"Don't apologize," you say. "That's actually kind of flattering, that you think I'm that good."

"You are," he replies, almost painfully earnest. "I mean, you really are." He frowns, as if thoughtful. "So why do you do this, then? If you don't get paid?"

"Um, because I like it."

"You _like_ it? Really?"

And oh god, you think, he really is so genuinely, sincerely _stupid_ that it's actually kind of endearing. "Brock," you say patiently, "you eat me out after every time we do this, you _see_ how wet I am, I know you do. What makes you think I don't like it?"

"I don't know." He seems to consider the question. "I thought you were just... you know, really committed to your job."

"Well, I do like it."

"Huh," he says, his forehead wrinkling with concentration, like he's processing that information. You can almost see the wheels turning in his head, until he asks, "Why do you like it?"

"It's hot," you answer with a laugh. "Big huge guy like you taking it up the ass from me?" You smile at even the thought of it. "Yeah, that's fucking hot."

He's silent for a minute, and you wait, curious as to what he's going to say next. "I guess... I mean, I guess I should say sorry."

"What for?"

"The way I talk to you, before we..." He stops, abruptly, as if he doesn't want to actually name what it is you do together. "I know I'm an asshole, but I never thought about it, I thought if you were getting paid, I could say whatever I wanted to you."

"It's okay, I know you need to say all that shit." You shift, moving your legs behind you, lying down your stomach with a tiny, contented sigh. "And I like it, you know, feeling like I'm really taming the beast."

"Yeah, I like that too." He stares at you, and there's something different in his gaze, something you've never seen there before. "I like that you fight me, make me give in. Not many people stand up to me like that. It makes it... it makes it better."

"Better for me too."

You kiss his chest, unthinking, before you realize what you're doing, because this kind of casual intimacy has never been part of the bargain between you, but you don't stop, licking his nipple, moving across, lazily tracing your tongue over the outline of the tattoo on his chest. It's a sword, you suddenly notice, because you'd always assumed it was a knife, and _huh_ , you think, wondering what else you might have missed. His fingers rest lightly on the back of your neck, the barest caress, subtle in a way you wouldn't have ever thought him capable of.

"You could make a lot of money, you know," he says, absently. "If you ever wanted to."

"Maybe." You look up at him. "But I like it better as a hobby."

"So you do stuff like this with other guys?"

"Not right now," you reply. "You fulfil all my current needs."

"You... fulfil my needs too," he says, with a serious little nod. Which, oddly, might be one of the sweetest things anyone's ever said to you, and you lean down for a moment, kissing his chest again so he won't see your smile.

"You know, I was going to get some room service, have some dinner." He shrugs. "If you want to stay for a while."

You narrow your eyes at him, wondering what he's actually asking, but what you say is, "Do you want me to?"

"I don't know," he replies, hesitant, as if he's not sure if he needs to give you an out. "I mean, maybe."

"Then say that," you tell him, letting the faintest hint of authority creep back into your tone.

And it seems he's happy to cede _this_ to you without a fight, because he nods, again, and says, "I'd like you to stay."

"Well, I'd like that too."

"Okay," he says.

"Okay," you agree.

And this time, when you smile at him, you don't hide it.


End file.
